


everything in transit

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: "Well," Jon says now, passing a car in the middle lane and staring studiously at the road. "The offer's on the table. Mi armario es su armario.""Living in SoCal has definitely not improved your Spanish at all," Lovett says, "but I'll take it."





	everything in transit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/gifts).



> first of all, immense gratitude goes to misura for 1) bidding on me during the harvey fanaid auction, 2) being the most patient and gracious charity fundraiser fic recipient in history, and 3) putting up with my abrupt fandom shift in the back third of 2017. you are the real mvp. ♥
> 
> secondly: thanks to winterfold and insunshine for spectating, cheerleading, and telling me what shit to fix. i futzed with the timeline a bit to make this story work; any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> title from the jack's mannequin album of the same name.

Against his better judgment, Lovett shells out for Gogo on the way back to LA the day after New Years. He spends most of the next seven hours sending a litany of WhatsApp messages about the injustice of being forced to check a bag and the shittiness of in-flight meals and in-flight wifi, running commentary on the status of the sudokus in as many Sky Magazines as he can get his hands on.

 _are we as a generation addicted to the internet?_ he sends Jon, somewhere above Colorado.

 _you're the one spamming everyone from cruising altitude_ , Jon replies. _you tell me._

Jon's usually the only one who bothers texting Lovett back when he gets like this. Typical that he'd insisted on picking Lovett up; living across the street from one another has its perks, but Lovett's pretty sure Jon would've given him a ride home even if they didn't. He's altruistic like that.

Notifications are always slow to come in when Lovett's in the air, so he lands to a deluge of them despite his best efforts to keep up. He checks his email again while they're taxiing to the gate, swipes through to delete all the accumulated spam, flag the important shit for later. When he pokes his head into the Crooked slack, it's mostly still photos shared from parties over the break, food and family and pets.

The bathrooms in Terminal 5 at LAX are terminally terrible, but they're a step up from cramped airplane lavatories and he really needs to pee, so he ducks into one, ignoring the sad whine Pundit makes for deigning to lead her into such a wretched place. "Sorry, angel," he murmurs, sympathetic, and fishes a treat out of his backpack after he finishes washing his hands.

The last thing Jon sent him was a text thirty minutes ago saying he'd arrived. _omw out_ , Lovett shoots back, and follows the signs toward Baggage.

It hadn't been the worst vacation ever — had been much better than he expected, actually, to see his parents and Steph and the in-laws again, hunkering down in the den at the house in Syosset and watching Pundit track snow back inside after long walks — but Lovett's tired, head foggy the way that only recycled air can make him. He has no idea how he's supposed to take an even longer flight to Stockholm in a couple days; right now even the ride back home sounds hellish, let alone voluntarily getting packed in like sardines on another metal cylinder for eleven hours. God, his inner monologue is starting to sound like Jon on one of his more colorful objections to air travel. Lovett needs a bed now. Or — any flat surface that will have him, really. He's not picky.

Jon's eyeing the empty baggage carousel when Lovett steps off the escalator. He looks tan and healthy and good — but then, he always does. Lovett bends down to greet Leo first, scratching beneath his chin, and then Pundit's too when she headbutts his knee, needy as ever. When he straightens back up again, Jon's grinning at him, the full force of it nearly knocking Lovett back on his heels. Stupid, the way Jon's crinkling eyes still make Lovett's stomach kick after all these years. Immunity through exposure never works when he actually wants it to.

The last time Lovett had seen this particular smile, two and a half weeks ago, they were at the Improv for their company holiday party, but — he shouldn't be thinking about that. He's supposed to be moving forward, not backward.

"Hey," Jon says. "Figures your flight would be late."

Lovett rolls his eyes. "Not actually my fault, but okay."

"Mm. How was your holiday?"

"Cold," Lovett says, and allows himself a tiny smile when Jon laughs. "Thanks for coming to pick me up."

"Glorified chauffeur, you know me," Jon says. Lovett opens his mouth to counter, but then the dogs start going a little crazy as the first suitcases tip onto the carousel, and the moment's lost.

 

 

"I'm never flying Delta again," Lovett mutters later, ensconced in the comfort of Jon's Audi. _MY BAG IS STILL IN NYC >:(_, he sends Tommy, before he navigates to his email app and begins tapping a strongly-worded complaint into a draft.

Jon huffs out a laugh and makes the sharp turn onto the 405. "But you love the puzzles in Sky Magazine so much."

"Don't make light of my struggles, Favreau," Lovett says, trying to be stern. The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, and he bites the inside of his cheek. "Two out of five pairs of my maroon pants were in that suitcase. Forty percent!"

"Putting that math degree to good use."

"Williams would be proud." His phone buzzes in his hands; Tommy's messaged back, _You checked a bag? WTF._ Lovett returns, _NOT of my own volition, let's be clear. this is late capitalism at its finest, tommy._ He settles back in his seat and lets out a long breath, trying to clear his head. "Fuck. I have no idea how I'm gonna pack for Europe. That was like, half my wardrobe. The nice half." For a given value of nice.

"You could always borrow some of my stuff," Jon says, casual as anything, and glances over when Lovett inhales sharply.

"Generous of you. Eyes on the road."

"I'm just saying. It's nothing you haven't taken before by force."

Lovett drags his fingers through the dogs' fur, scratching behind their ears. "Um, I will not stand for this slander," he says, carefully modulating his voice. "The box from Banana Republic came to my house, so I made use of the clothing contained therein."

"And you looked very good in them," Jon says, indulgent. "Not like an IT guy at all."

Lovett laughs, full-bodied, the sound filling the car. "I love it when you pander to me."

Jon's smiling again, like he can't help it. "I know."

Jon technically isn't wrong either, is the thing. Lovett used to steal his hoodies sometimes, back when they were still working at the White House and Lovett and Cody's office felt like the coldest in the building every winter. Jon wasn't the only victim of this casual appropriation; on Lovett's last day with the administration, he'd brought an entire cardboard box of jackets and accessories back _to_ the office to hand out to their rightful owners.

"I thought I'd lost this," Cody had said, dry, plucking a thick scarf out of the bundle.

"Borrowed and returned," Lovett corrected, and slid away to drop a beanie off at Ben's office.

"Well," Jon says now, passing a car in the middle lane and staring studiously at the road. "The offer's on the table. Mi armario es su armario."

"Living in SoCal has definitely not improved your Spanish at all," Lovett says, "but I'll take it."

 

 

They're in the office again on Wednesday morning. Lovett's up too early, still on east coast time, so he and Jon breeze in together. It doesn't occur to him that they've got matching coffees and matching dogs _and_ matching henleys until Tommy slides out from behind his desk, smirking over the rim of his Diet Coke.

"What?" Lovett says.

"There's just something different about you today," Tommy says, tapping his chin, faux thoughtful. "Can't quite put my finger on it." He eyes Lovett's shoulders, gaze trailing down to the way the too-long sleeves of Jon's shirt swallow Lovett's hands. "Have you been working out?"

Jon snorts, bending down to let Leo loose. "Peel off all my layers and you'll see just how deeply I dived into Jon's closet," Lovett says archly.

Tommy's face turns a little pink, but he's still grinning. "Save it for the Tommy John ad copy," he advises, and turns back to his computer.

Lovett sinks into his own desk chair, pops his laptop open, and tries to focus. None of this should be a big deal, really, except that every item of clothing that Jon owns smells faintly of laundry detergent (great) and the sharp cologne that he uses (not so great). Lovett's not about to stick his nose into the collar of this borrowed shirt in the middle of a workday, but it certainly isn't the last thing on his mind.

He's had nine years of practice compartmentalizing all the different things he feels about Jon Favreau, but it's difficult not to be preoccupied when the night of the holiday party is still swirling around the back of his head like a specter. He'd hoped two weeks of quarantine on the other side of the country would help, but apparently not. Turns out almost kissing one of your business partners in a fit of tipsy stupor is harder to deal with than Lovett could have previously imagined.

Jon seems unperturbed by all of this, and he's never been able to keep a straight face to save his life, so that probably means he's forgotten about Lovett's moment of weakness. He's as generous a friend as he's always been. Lovett's not going to punish him for that by being a complete weirdo about borrowing a couple of his shirts and some pants.

"Nice kicks, Lovett," Tanya says, pulling him out of the weeds as she comes out of the recording booth. She does a conspicuous double-take before settling onto the couch. "Nice shirt, too. You look good."

"How come no one ever compliments my extremely fashionable graphic tees?" Lovett complains, shaking his head. He makes a face when Tommy starts laughing.

"Maybe it's time to accept that my general sense of style is just more tasteful than yours," Jon puts in from behind his iPad.

"Boring heteronormative gray," Lovett says, plucking at the collar of his shirt. "Truly the pinnacle of haute couture."

Elijah pops up from where he's filming Leo and grins. "Bets on how long it takes Lovett to do laundry now that he's back in LA?"

"Et tu, Brute?" Lovett says, pressing a hand to his chest.

Elijah waves his phone. "It's the content people want, I'm pretty sure. Maybe I'll put up an Instagram poll."

"How can I wash clothes I don't even have?" Lovett demands. "My errant suitcase might not even make it back in time before we leave. The customer service email said _within 72 hours_ , but I don't trust them."

"So laundry's definitely not happening until after the Eurotrip," Tommy says, and grins when Lovett tosses his hands in air.

"It's a trick question, anyway," Jon says bracingly. "Why would Lovett waste the water when he could just order five more pairs of maroon pants off Amazon with two-day delivery?"

The room at large dissolves into laughter. Jon doesn't get to be the funny one often; Lovett will let him have the win. He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "I can't even argue with that." He doesn't think at all about the clench in his stomach when Jon shoots him a satisfied smile, small and private, before bending back over his work.

 

 

Truthfully, without Jon's help, Lovett probably would've been able to make do just fine with the remnants of his wardrobe that weren't lost at sea in his holiday suitcase. Some of the clothes stashed deep in his closet don't fit quite right anymore, but they're still perfectly serviceable as long as they don't smell too stale or feel too crusty. It's just that one concession leads to another, and Lovett's first impulse is always to push at boundaries, lean in hard enough that everything real becomes so absurd that anybody paying attention can't help but laugh. If something's impossible to ignore, then the only alternative is to look it straight in the eye and stare it down into submission.

The hoodies Jon lends him are a little too tight at the shoulder and too long at the arm, but they're warm, and they smell like him, and Jon offered. It would've been rude to turn him down, right?

Lovett channels all his restlessness into Delta grievances in ad reads for the week, which are at least good for a laugh or two. The Friday night before they leave for Europe, though, he finally has to bite the bullet and pack without his missing luggage. He hauls his spare suitcase out, dumps a couple pairs of non Tommy John underwear in a bag and cobbles together some travel toiletries. One pair of his maroon pants has a splotch on the thigh from where he spilled eggnog on it before Christmas, so that's out.

 _this situation is dire_ , Lovett texts Jon, and sends him a follow-up picture of his packing progress.

Jon replies five minutes later with a crying-laughing emoji, and then, like clockwork: _come over_.

"Feels weird not to be doing Lovett or Leave It tonight," Lovett comments when Jon lets him in the house. Jon's steps stutter, the dogs tripping them up underfoot. "How's it going?"

"Alright," Jon says. His carry-on is laid out in the middle of his bedroom, two-thirds of the way filled with socks and underwear and jeans. On the floor, Jon's laid out the same shirt in four different colors. There's a puffy winter coat folded up next to the branded beanies they'd been given earlier this morning.

"Better than me," Lovett says, flopping over stomach-first onto the foot of Jon's bed without invitation. _Be cool, be normal_ — it's what Lovett would've done three weeks ago, so it's what he does now. "You saw my photo. There might be a suit I could bring, but I'm pretty sure I haven't tried it on since I left the White House."

"You didn't have to dress up for any swanky LA parties when you were swanning around Hollywood?" Jon asks, disbelieving. He sits down next to his suitcase and starts folding his shirts up.

"When you're a writer, no one cares what you wear," Lovett says, which is mostly true. He props his chin on his hands and notices another stack of clothing sitting on the loveseat next to Jon's wardrobe. "What are those for?"

Jon follows his gaze and coughs twice into his palm, a dull flush sliding up his neck. "I dug up a couple of things that might fit you better," he says, not quite looking at Lovett. "In case you needed stuff to bring on tour."

Lovett blinks. "Oh," he says. "Thanks. You didn't have to."

Jon shrugs, tugging loosely at the hem of his shirt. "I wanted to," he says, because it really is always that simple for him. Jon wants, therefore Jon does whatever he needs to do, clear-eyed and single-minded. He's uncomplicated. It's one of the things Lovett likes most about him.

He finally looks at Lovett, the corner of his mouth tilted upward, that shining smile on his face again. Lovett swallows, mind drawn inexorably back. Three weeks ago, in the Lab at the Improv, Dan called in at half past eleven to greet all and sundry at the holiday party, passed around on the phone from person to person. Lovett was four drinks deep by then, loose-limbed and happy after their final live show of 2017, surrounded by all the people that had helped make the last year even remotely bearable. Ronnie had just finished yelling something on the microphone that Lovett couldn't quite track, and then Ira pulled them all into the photobooth area to take a bunch of goofy pictures with him. It was a pretty good time.

Lovett doesn't remember how he and Jon ended up alone backstage together, or why there was a random drum kit sitting in the dark next to the bedazzled curtain they were using as a backdrop for the photobooth. He does remember the flash of Jon's teeth as he leant in closer, though, the curl of his mouth and the way every sound floating in from the party seemed muted, suddenly, as Jon reached up to brush the brim of Lovett's stupid Santa snapback aside.

The slow, deliberate drag of Jon's gaze across Lovett's mouth felt as close to a kiss as they could get without actually pressing their lips together.

It might've even happened — Lovett might have gotten up on his toes, balanced with a hand on Jon's shoulder, and given in to the impulse to just _do_ it — had another group of giggly, drunk people not burst in with Tanya to take photos at that exact moment. What happened was: Jon stepped back, the tip of his tongue flitting out to wet his lower lip, and the two of them were yanked in to join the bigger group, smiling for the cameras. The next morning, Lovett woke up to a killer hangover, a stern directive from Tommy in the Slack re: the $15 spending maximum for their Yankee Swap, and another message at large from Jon asking about access to the photobooth pictures. Business as usual. They hadn't crossed the Rubicon anywhere but in the darkness of Lovett's mind, and for that, he was grateful.

Jon — has been speaking this entire time. Lovett tunes back in just in time to hear him ask, "You don't need to borrow underwear or anything, do you?"

Lovett's mouth goes dry at the thought. He's pretty proud of how level his voice comes out when he replies, "Uh, no, I have enough," throat only clicking once on the last word. He rolls over to stare at the ceiling so he won't have to look at the earnest expression on Jon's face anymore.

Sometimes, during his deeper excursions down the rabbit hole, he wonders if Jon would give him the skin off his back if Lovett ever requested it. The possibility that Jon might say yes also happens to be the biggest deterrent to asking. He only likes taking advantage of their friendship when the stakes don't actually matter.

"Hey," Jon says, and his face swims back into view, upside down from this angle. He reaches out to plop two shirts, a sweater, and a pair of sweatpants onto Lovett's chest. "Here. Even if you don't end up wearing them, it's always better to overpack than to underpack, right?"

"Right," Lovett echoes, and curls his fingers in the soft fabric.

 

 

On Saturday, they drop the dogs off at Andy and Molly's house and then carpool to the airport. Jon pops his Xanax at the gate before boarding, so he's out like a light by the time they lift off. Tanya and Corinne are sitting two rows ahead of them, and Tommy's across the aisle, working his way through a copy of _Fire and Fury_ with steely concentration.

It's fine. Lovett's used to being left to his own devices on trips like these. He pages through the Scandinavian travel magazine tucked inside the seat back pocket, does a few crossword puzzles on his phone, and takes several walks up and down the main cabin to keep the blood circulating in his legs. Delta sends an email that his missing suitcase is landing in Los Angeles that evening, twenty-four hours too late to be useful. He ends up dozing off during the last third of their flight, doesn't jolt awake again until they're in Swedish airspace, somewhere above Örebro according to the in-flight tracker, his face tucked against Jon's shoulder.

He's drooled a little on Jon's shirt, which he would feel more embarrassed about if his head wasn't still clouded with sleep. When Lovett shifts away to inspect the damp spot, Jon's blinking, bleary-eyed, mouth curling slowly upward. He looks so dopey, which shouldn't be endearing, but Lovett's long since resigned himself to Jon's particular brand of wholesome charm.

It always takes Jon a while to shake off the downers after a long flight like this; that part isn't weird at all. What's weird is that Jon doesn't move away after he notices Lovett looking at him. He doesn't settle back in his seat — he leans closer instead, and, before Lovett can really process what's happening, presses his mouth against the corner of Lovett's, firm and warm.

Lovett's brain feels like it stalls out, frozen in this moment of time and space, the puff of Jon's breath hot against his cheek. They're floating seven miles up in a tin can, and Jon's so close that Lovett can see the lighter specks of color in his eyes, could count his lashes if he wanted to. Lovett isn't quite sure what to do — isn't quite sure what he would've done, had a flight attendant not taken that opportunity to lean over and say, in slightly accented English, "Tray tables up and seats back in their upright position, please, sir."

"Sure," Lovett says, jerking away flustered, and turns to fumble with the button on his arm rest. When his gaze cuts toward Tommy, he's nose-deep in a different book, hasn't clocked anything out of the ordinary. It's probably just as well. Lovett wouldn't know how to begin to explain any of this.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, exhales in measured increments, counting in his head back from 10. By the time he does it again, he's feeling game enough to attempt looking at Jon again. He turns, neck stiff, mouth opening to say — something, God, anything — but Jon's eyes have slipped shut, his mouth hanging halfway open. For all intents and purposes, it looks like he's fallen back asleep. Jesus Christ. Of course.

Maybe Lovett just needs to impose a moratorium on being around Jon while he's under the influence. It would be much better for his own emotional wellbeing, at the very least. The handsiness is certainly a recent development, but Jon's done plenty of ridiculous things he doesn't remember because of his benzos; he'd tried to order ten bottles of duty-free wine on the flight to Wisconsin last year, which only Tanya's timely intervention had prevented. The point is — categorizing this as typical doped up behavior is the path of least resistance, and if it's going to be a continuing pattern moving forward, Lovett should try to get out ahead of it.

Jon doesn't bring it up when they're shuffling off the plane, and Lovett doesn't really have time to dwell on anything by the time they're on the ground; there are cobblestone sidewalks to stroll down, and the absurd 2PM sunset to catch, and prep to do for the show that evening. The world keeps on turning.

 

 

Lovett switches seats with Tommy on the flight to Oslo on Monday and spends most of the ride pretending like he can't feel Jon trying to bore a hole through the back of his head. The good thing about traveling in a big group is that they're almost always together, so Lovett doesn't have to be alone with anyone if he doesn't want to be; the bad thing is that they're almost always together, so it takes very little time for Tommy to pick up on the weirdness Lovett's been trying not to telegraph.

After dinner that evening, he slides into Lovett's hotel room and sets up shop in the swivel chair next to the desk. "What's up with you and Jon?" he says, discarding even the pretense of being casual. "He looked like a kicked puppy this morning when you took my seat."

Lovett glances up over the screen of his laptop and makes a face, trying not to bristle too visibly. "Please don't tell me he put you up to this."

Tommy mimics his grimace. "What is this, middle school? Of course not." He rolls his eyes at the skeptical look Lovett throws him. "Look, even if we weren't all friends, we're still business partners. You know I have a vested interest in making sure our European Apology Tour goes smoothly, at the very least."

"Right," Lovett says, deflating. "Sorry, we're just… working through some stuff."

"Hell of a time to pick."

"I know, I know." Lovett rubs his eyes, fingers pushing up beneath his glasses, knocking them askew. "It's — complicated." _Jon keeps trying to kiss me and I don't know if I want to know why. I'm afraid of what it might mean. I'm afraid of what it might change. I am afraid._

"And yet," Tommy says, just a little too sharp. "You're still wearing his sweatpants."

Lovett feels his face go hot. "That's not — he let me — ugh. Whatever. They're comfortable."

"Lovett," Tommy says, softer, and when Lovett looks at him again, his head is tilted, thoughtful and serene. "I'm not really sure what's going on, but I've known both of you long enough that I can say with certainty that things aren't great when you're on the outs. And if it's bothering me, it's definitely bothering Tanya and Corinne. They're just too professional to bring it up with you."

Lovett sucks in his cheeks. "Are you calling yourself unprofessional? Tommy, don't sell yourself short."

Tommy rolls his eyes again. "Don't change the subject." Lovett sighs. "We're supposed to be communications experts," Tommy points out, because he always has to be annoyingly right about these things. "Maybe what you've got here is a failure to communicate."

"Okay, cool hand Luke," Lovett mutters. "I'll talk to him. Soon. Promise."

"Good," Tommy says, rising from the chair and brushing his khakis off. "Now I have a fiance and a dog to Facetime."

Lovett sticks his tongue out at him. "You're a disgusting dog dad, but say hi to Hanna for me," he says, and laughs when Tommy sends him a rude gesture before disappearing back out the door.

 

 

They all wake up around eleven on Tuesday, jet lag's claws still sunk deep inside their heads. Lovett downs three cups of hotel coffee, and then they're off to speak at the NHO conference, during which Lovett manages to offend every European nation that still operates a functioning monarchy. He can't help it; if he can't be punchy about the things that are really gnawing at him, the fact that Norway's prince is sitting in the audience watching them discuss the state of American democracy is the lowest hanging fruit in the country.

"Rare form today, boss," Tanya says afterward, when they're giving their wireless mics back to the sound guys.

"Must be something about the water here," Lovett returns drily, and tries not to think about the way Jon had grinned at him across the stage.

There's a fancy dinner they have to dress up for later that night, where Tommy and Jon will undoubtedly charm all of the politicians in the vicinity and Lovett will continue putting his foot in his mouth. The slacks and jacket he packed made it over okay, but his dress shirt is hopelessly crumpled, which is, Lovett thinks grimly, as good an opening as he'll get.

Jon opens the door on Lovett's second knock — tie hanging loose around the back of his neck, face damp from what must've been a quick shave — and then just stands there gaping for a moment. "Hey," Lovett says, lifting the shirt in his hand. "My dress shirt looks like this. Do you have any extras?"

"You're honestly a disaster," Jon says, but it sounds too fond to be cutting, like it always does. He steps back to let Lovett in. "Maybe you could learn how to use an iron."

"Sounds boring," Lovett says.

Jon moves toward his suitcase and bends over to rummage through it, which gives Lovett a pretty spectacular view of his ass. He looks away when Jon pops back up again, watches out of the corner of his eye as Jon shakes his shirt out. "The creasing isn't the best, and it's probably a little long, but you can just tuck it in."

He steps up, shirt in hand, unthinking, and sweeps it around Lovett's back. "Um," Lovett says, trying not to breathe in too deeply, and recovers enough to stick his arms through the holes. "What am I, a Barbie?"

Jon huffs, so close that Lovett can feel it tickling his neck. The corner of his mouth burns with remembered heat, the soft press of Jon's lips. "If you could be trusted to dress yourself properly, we wouldn't be in this position," Jon says, and reaches down to start buttoning Lovett up, tongue stuck out in concentration.

"I got it," Lovett says, too breathy. He nearly headbutts Jon's chin in his haste to look down and fumble with his own buttons. His fingers feel fat and dumb, but he manages it. He hears Jon sigh, first, and then feels him rock forward on the balls of his feet, mouth brushing against the curls at the crown of Lovett's head.

Lovett's hands shoot out to press against Jon's chest. He can't quite bring himself to push Jon away, but it's — a barrier, at least. A stopgap, while he tries to think. He tilts his head up, and Jon's face is so close, hovering, eyes big and brown and liquid. He's lucid right now, awake and sober. He'll remember this.

"You can't," Lovett says carefully, "just keep kissing me — almost kissing me — and then not explain yourself."

"Do you want me to stop?" Jon says, searching his face. "I'll stop. Just tell me you don't want to."

It would be so easy for Lovett to lie, but he can't bring himself to do that, either. Lovett's always been bad at clean breaks, cutting the cord. Even after he left the White House for good, he was back in DC again the next weekend, drawn back — to his old life, to his friends, to Jon — like a magnet. For years after, he couldn't stay away from the Correspondents' Dinner even if he tried.

He's hesitated for too long. Jon's eyes go wide, lips parting. He nudges forward, closer, their noses bumping together. Lovett digs his fingers into the material of Jon's blue shirt, breath held tight in his throat, and Jon brushes their mouths together once, twice, hands moving restlessly up and down Lovett's sides, curling finally at his hips, soft but sure. Lovett would be lying if he said he'd never had idle thoughts about this before, but now, confronted with the reality of the situation, his mind skitters to a halt.

He feels his phone start buzzing in his pocket — _fuck_ — and takes a half-step backward, mouth tingling. Jon's goes off a beat later, and Lovett bites his lip, pulls his balled-up tie out with his phone. Tommy's sent them both texts: _Car's going to be outside in five. Meet you in the lobby?_ Figures he'd interrupt when Lovett was _trying_ to take his advice.

"Lovett," Jon says, exhaling.

"I need to think about this," Lovett says, closing his eyes briefly. He can feel himself starting to clam up, and he's too tired to fight it. "Can you just give me some time to think about it? Sometimes I can't — do that, when I'm around you."

"Okay," Jon says. He watches Lovett loop his tie around his neck, reaches out automatically to smooth Lovett's lapels once the knot is in place, tips of his long fingers tugging the points into place.

"Jon," Lovett says, pleading.

"Yeah," Jon says, throat working as he steps away. "Yeah, okay."

 

 

The dinner is fine. As fine as could be expected. Lovett spends most of it nodding politely at various Norwegian politicians and diplomats and paying far less attention than he should; he doesn't really have the wherewithal to be engaged and witty when his thoughts are spinning out in twenty different directions. He tries to ignore how Jon keeps _looking_ at him, but it's difficult, considering they're all sitting at the same table.

There are levels to this shit that Lovett is still grappling with, but the one he keeps coming back to is that even when he couldn't be sure about anything else — whether he was drowning in research for a speech or deciding if he should move to LA or halfway across the country drinking himself silly after _1600 Penn_ was cancelled — he was always sure about where he stood with Jon. He was always sure about how Jon felt about him, always sure about the straightforward, effortless nature of their friendship, always sure that he could pick up the phone at any time of the day and be able to find Jon at the other end of the line, ready with a sympathetic ear to hear.

The fact that whatever is between them now feels like goddamn quicksand is fucking frightening, like a foundational piece of himself has suddenly been rendered unrecognizable.

The truth is: part of Lovett has always been a little bit in love with Jon, but for the past nine years it's been something that he could stick in a small box in his head and ignore, because reciprocity was never on the table. He could make all the stupid homoerotic jokes in the world without them meaning anything, because that's all they were — jokes. He was okay with that; upsetting the equilibrium sure as hell wasn't worth it.

Three weeks into this ordeal, Lovett can say with confidence that it was much easier to live without the horrible shadow of hope hanging over his heart, unleashed and hungry. Jon is going to find out soon enough that Lovett doesn't know how to not take more than he should; he needs to reset this before he ruins everything by feeling too much. He stares down at his plate, the picked-at remains of his dinner, and then the crisp folds of his borrowed dress shirt. The first thing he can start with is the clothes.

 

 

The Oslo show goes well, and the one in Amsterdam is very informative for reasons that definitely don't involve drugs. For two days, Lovett makes do with his lumpy brown cargo pants and a thin black t-shirt that he's owned since college, too tight around the arms, and pretends he doesn't notice Jon trying to set them on fire with his eyes.

On Friday, when they're in London, Lovett finally manages to drag Tanya shopping with him, citing the ushanka she bought him at Target before they left LA as a demonstration of her good taste. They get back to the hotel after tea time with Corinne, laden down with H&M and Primark bags. Lovett lays out his spoils of war, new jeans and shoes and two shirts, and smothers the dull pang in his chest when he folds Jon's clothing up and tucks it in one of the leftover shopping bags.

"Good look," Tommy says the next day, eyebrows raised, when they're running through sound check before the afternoon show.

Lovett preens. "I helped him pick stuff out," Tanya comments, and Lovett lets her have the win because she's currently messing with the feedback on their microphones.

It feels like Jon's been frowning since they congregated in the hotel lobby to head to the venue. "The velvet loafers are a bit much, no?" he manages now, crossing his legs in his chair and squirming when Lovett pins him with a look.

"When in Rome," Lovett says, waving a hand. "Or London, as it were."

It's not that Lovett hadn't entertained the possibility that Jon might react badly when Lovett began nudging the goalposts back where they belonged; Jon's been a cranky baby enough times over the years that Lovett knows exactly what he's capable of. Lovett just hadn't anticipated having to be the one smoothing things over out in public, too. "I haven't slept since December," Jon grouses as Corinne's taking a video for Instagram, his fingers tapping at his iPad, brow furrowed with irritation.

Lovett leans forward, elbows on his knees, hamming it up for the camera, and says, "Look at what a hard time my boys are having." Tommy shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

He's doing his best, is the thing. Jon hasn't cornered him alone in the past three days, which is something, but he could also try harder to meet him halfway.

 

 

It turns out attempting to break velvet loafers in while on tour isn't the greatest idea he's ever had. By the time the Lovett or Leave It taping ends, both his heels feel like giant blisters. It's their last night in Europe, though, and he's pretty sure Jon and Tommy have been postgaming it up at the pub across the street for hours by now. They just finished five live shows in seven days. He's not going to let his feet or Jon's petulance ruin his fun.

He ends up tucked in between Tommy and Corinne, across the booth from Tanya and Jon, complaining loudly about the queen and the clock and the way Guinness tastes different on this side of the pond. "On this side of the pond, it's authentic," Jon returns, relaxed enough from drinking that he seems more willing to engage Lovett with his customary vigor instead of scowling at his sartorial choices.

Lovett perks up, warming to the subject. "I'm just saying," he says loftily. "As an American with American tastes and a staunchly American mindset, maybe I _prefer_ the shitty canned version. Authenticity is overrated, Jon."

Tommy lets out a bark of laughter. "You're in a mood," he says, jostling Lovett with his elbow.

"He was complaining about his shoes backstage earlier," Corinne says around the rim of her beer.

"Ugh," Lovett says, slumping back and wiggling. "I'll never betray sneakers again. Comfort over style, that's my motto."

"I can help with that," Jon says, flushed, and reaches down to grab Lovett's ankle, fingers squeezing. Lovett almost lets him, but remembers — boundaries. He can't keep capitulating if he's actually committed to returning to the platonic ideal of their friendship.

"Not in _public_ , Jon," Lovett says, pitching his voice as suggestively as possible, and tugs his foot out of Jon's grasp. No one else seems to notice, too busy laughing and drinking and toasting their successes, but Lovett swallows hard when the smile slides off Jon's face.

 

 

Sunday morning, they run late enough that the only seats left on the flight when they check in at Heathrow are singles. Tommy takes the seat one row in front of Jon's, halfway up the main cabin, and Lovett ends up wedged in a window seat in the back. It doesn't matter much; the ride is smooth, and he manages to doze off after dicking around on Twitter for the first hour, sleep deficit catching up with him.

Jon's downers are slower to wear off this time; he's still kind of loopy when they disembark, face soft, eyes hazy and indistinct, swaying on his feet. "Geez," Lovett says, throat aching just watching him. He doesn't want to know what his own face is doing; it must be something stupid. "How many pills did he take?"

"Enough," Tommy says, rolling his eyes. He checks his watch, hefts his bag, sends Lovett an appraising look. "I gotta get home. Can you handle him?"

Lovett pretends to be offended, presses a hand to his chest and says, with far more confidence than he actually feels, "Who do you think I am? Of course I can tag in." He reaches down for Jon's wrist. "Come on," he says briskly, tugging. It shouldn't surprise him when Jon moves to lace their fingers together, but Lovett's stomach swoops anyway.

They get to Delta's baggage office without incident. Lovett finally reunites with his missing suitcase, an overall anticlimactic affair, and then they're off to find Jon's Audi in the parking lot. They're so close to home; he just has to make it the last fifteen miles. Lovett can pick up dinner and grab the dogs from Andy and Molly's, dump everything in the washing machine for the first time in a month, and then pass out and not have to think about anything for a while.

"Where are your keys?" Lovett says, huffing as Jon pats himself down, blinking slowly. They turn up in the little zip up pocket of Jon's carry-on, and Lovett pushes their bags into the trunk, bundles Jon into the passenger's seat. "God, why are your legs so long? You and Tommy. Seems like an evolutionary oversight."

"Isn't it an evolutionary advantage?" Jon inquires, thoughtful. "Long legs catch gazelles, or something."

"Are you a cheetah? That doesn't make any sense," Lovett says, shaking his head as they pull out of the garage, and it almost feels normal, the easy back and forth. Maybe now that they're back in Los Angeles, things can go back to the way they were. "Hey, do you want dinner? I could go for something greasy and terrible."

"Yeah, sure," Jon says, and lets Lovett run through the litany of drive-thru options on the way back to West Hollywood. They're waiting to make the turn onto the 405 — Lovett preparing to launch into a comprehensive breakdown of the relative merits of In-N-Out, Five Guys, and Shake Shack — when Jon straightens up in his seat, turns toward him, and asks, quiet and serious, "Why won't you let me take care of you?"

Lovett's fingers tighten reflexively around the steering wheel. "What?" he says. When he glances over, all trace of Jon's previous sluggishness are completely gone, which — "What the fuck, Favreau? Were you even a little bit stoned?"

"I may have exaggerated," Jon says, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish. "I didn't want you running off in a Lyft before we could talk."

Lovett shakes his head again, warring between feeling mildly panicked and grudgingly impressed. "Since when did you have an ounce of guile in your body?" he mutters.

"I learned from the best," Jon says, earnest, incapable of not being himself, even when he's trying to reproach Lovett for — God, he doesn't even know. Behind them, a car honks as the light turns green, and Lovett zooms off onto the highway. Jon sighs. "I gave you time to think."

"You did," Lovett says, staring straight ahead. "I don't — I want to interrogate the premise of your question. I do let you take care of me. You lent me your clothes when I needed them, like any good friend would, and now I'm going to go home and do laundry and return them."

"You know it wasn't just a friend thing," Jon says, voice low, and Lovett swerves into the far left lane, hunched over the steering wheel, face hot.

"You would've done the same thing for Tommy!" he snaps, too shrill.

"Tommy is more than capable of doing laundry and dressing himself."

"So am I!"

"So are you," Jon agrees. "But I wanted to help you anyway." _I wanted to_ , Jon said, sitting on the floor next to his suitcase before they left last Friday, not _you needed it_ or _I thought I ought to_ but _I wanted to_ , the difference between necessity and obligation and desire. Lovett wants to hide from it and seek it out at the same time, bury himself in the sand but also keep digging until he finds whatever it is that makes Jon so certain about what he wants that he decided it was a good idea to hash this out with Lovett in a moving vehicle. Jon shifts restlessly in his seat, fingers tapping on the dashboard. "I don't want to kiss Tommy," he says, almost an afterthought.

"That's great for you, considering he's very taken," Lovett says with effort, and then, because it's been eating at him for the better part of a month: "Why do you want to kiss _me_?"

Jon pauses for a moment, goes still. "We recorded the outro for the clip show the week of the holiday party," he says, slow and careful, "and you said that it was one of the coolest — one of the best things of your life, doing this thing with me and Tommy, and I thought — I realized — " He trails off.

"Realized what?" Lovett says, kind of hysterical. "That you wanted to be the best thing in my life?"

"Yes," Jon says, almost too quiet to hear, and it feels like all the air's been sucked out of the car at once. Lovett's so dazed he almost misses the exit to I-10, has to cut in front of a bunch of honking cars to make it. "Jesus," Jon says, under his breath.

"You already are," Lovett says, voice cracking, and feels something in his chest loosen, unclench, tingling all the way to his fingers and toes. It's out there now, in the open. Jon can do with it what he will. "You have been. I thought it was obvious."

"It wasn't," Jon says, and Lovett sends him an incredulous glance before turning back to pay attention to the traffic. "You have to understand, Lovett," he continues, fervently now, "that it's hard, sometimes, to tell whether you want my attention because you're you or if you want my attention because I'm me." A pause, and then: "You're a lot, you know? You're always doing ten different things at once. Hiding in plain sight."

It's not wrong. He's not like Jon; he doesn't know how to want things in a single direction, with dogged purpose. Lovett just wants, big and broad and terrifying, so much that it paralyzes him. He can count on one hand the number of times he's channeled that into something real, something worthy. It doesn't ever seem to get less difficult.

Lovett pulls up to the curb next to Andy and Molly's house and tugs the car into park, leans over so his forehead is resting against the steering wheel. He feels wrung out, laid bare. One of Jon's hands brushes up his back to rest at the nape of his neck, and Lovett shudders, sighing wetly.

"Fuck," he says, squeezing his eyes shut for a long, hard moment before pushing up again, turning to stare at Jon over the gear selector.

There must be some tell on his face, because Jon's eyebrows slant down with concern. "It's just me, Lovett," Jon says, imploring, the hand around Lovett's neck warm and heavy. "Why are you so scared?"

"Why aren't you?" Lovett says, hating the way his voice wavers. "How can you be so sure about me? About this? You don't — what if we're terrible for each other?" Jon's mouth twists, and Lovett tries to stem the flow of words, but it's too late now, all of the things that keep him up at night bubbling out of his mouth, like he's a bottle of soda, shaken, the top twisted off. "What if I fuck it up, or ask for too much? What if you get tired of me? What if we figure out it won't work, and then we can't fix it?" He sucks in a deep breath, exhales, shaky. "Isn't what we already have good enough?"

Jon shakes his head, hand moving around to cup Lovett's face, thumb sliding gently against the line of Lovett's jaw. "I can't be sure about anything," he admits, which, in its own absurd way, makes the wild, clawing fear crammed up in Lovett's throat begin to dissipate, just a little. "I can't, Lovett, but wouldn't you rather try?"

"Jon," Lovett says, helpless, and Jon moves in closer, eyes wide and bright.

"You're a lot, but you're not too much," he says, urgent, like he needs Lovett to understand. "It's been nine years — I've known you for nine years, and I don't think I could get tired of you even if we were the last two people on Earth." Lovett's face crumples, disbelieving, and Jon shakes his head again, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I mean, fuck. I could barely handle it when you stopped wearing my clothes. You have to know how crazy I am about you."

Lovett huffs. "You never said anything."

Jon scrunches his nose. "Neither did you, and you say everything."

"Not everything," Lovett objects.

Jon grins. "I even like how contrary you are. I think it's charming. Doesn't that count for something?"

"No one likes how contrary I am," Lovett says faintly, and Jon laughs, soft. "Talk about Stockholm Syndrome."

"Mm," Jon says, shrugging it off. "If the shoe fits." His eyes flick down to stare at Lovett's mouth, and Lovett feels his stomach flip. "I just think — you deserve more than _good enough_. You deserve whatever you want, okay? That's all."

Lovett swallows, heart beating in his throat, and says, "Okay."

Jon's gaze snaps up again. "Okay, what?"

Lovett leans forward before he can chicken out of it, reaches out to wind his fingers in the collar of Jon's shirt and pull him in the rest of the way, presses their mouths together, the punctuation mark of kisses, brief and sharp and hard. Jon looks stunned when they break apart, free hand coming up to trace his lower lip. Lovett smiles at him, a zing of adrenaline shooting up his spine, cutting through the exhaustion of an eleven-hour flight and seven days of touring and a month of this dance with Jon, almost a decade in the making. Maybe they'll flame out, maybe they'll fuck up, maybe none of this will work — but Jon's unending optimism has been contagious since day one, and Lovett has, in this single, shining moment, exactly what he wants, grasped tight in the palm of his hand. "Okay," he says, "let's go get the dogs, and then we can go home."

 

 

Pundit's delighted to see him after a week abroad, which is gratifying in its own way; a dog's affection is love in its purest, most distilled form. "Careful," Jon says on the drive back to his house, when Lovett airs this objective truth aloud. "You're gonna make me jealous."

"Oh my God," Lovett says, and sticks his face into Pundit's fur to hide his flush. "I don't know, Jon. I'm pretty sure your intentions are anything but pure."

Jon laughs, but he also gives Lovett an appreciative onceover at the next light, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. The hair on the back of Lovett's neck stands up, and he fidgets, kicking his feet out against the rug.

"I knew it," Lovett says, over the dull roaring in his ears. "You're just trying to use me for my body."

"Caught me," Jon says breezily. "I'm into some really gross shit, Lovett. I wanna hold your hand all the time."

"You're so fucking embarrassing," Lovett says, the tips of his ears burning. He can't wipe the stupid smile off his face, though, so he's pretty sure Jon knows he doesn't mean it.

Lovett herds Pundit and Leo out of the car when they pull into Jon's driveway; Jon follows behind with the suitcases and the dog stuff, disappears to ostensibly fill both water dishes up in the kitchen. Lovett sits down cross-legged on the living room floor and cracks his holiday suitcase open, sniffing skeptically at its contents, which seem kind of damp for reasons he really doesn't want to contemplate right now.

"Well," he says, as Jon comes back in with a glass of water and a pamplemousse La Croix. He passes the can over when Lovett makes grabby-hands at him. "Would you be mad if I slipped all this stuff in _your_ hamper?"

Jon taps his chin, pretending to think. "I'll do your laundry if you promise to stay the night," he says.

"Order dinner and it's a deal," Lovett says without missing a beat.

Jon blinks, eyebrows rising. "If I'd known it'd be that easy, I would've offered a long time ago."

"I'm a slut for other people doing basic household chores for me, you've always known that," Lovett scoffs, imperious, and grins when Jon cracks up, one hand draped over his mouth.

They abandon their luggage when the Postmates guy arrives with their food, sitting on the couch to eat while some sports game plays on TV. Lovett mostly focuses on his kelp noodles and his Twitter app, but he keeps catching Jon sneaking glances at him, dopey grin in full effect. It isn't much different, really, from a typical Sunday night, except that they kiss in the kitchen when they're putting leftovers away, and again in the bathroom, after Jon digs up a spare toothbrush for him. _I could get used to this_ , Lovett thinks, breath minty fresh, his hands digging into Jon's hips, up on his toes for better access.

He doesn't have to ask for something to wear to sleep; Jon just presses a shirt and a fresh pair of sweatpants into his arms when they move into the bedroom. Lovett's been in here a million times before, but this is the first time Jon's been in the room while Lovett undresses for bed, eyes tracking the movement of Lovett's arms as he tugs his jeans off, shucks his shirt, shrugging the stale plane smell off himself.

The sleeves are still too long, but Lovett can revel in how much he likes it, now. He's allowed.

Exhaustion hits him like a truck once he's in comfortable clothing. Jon nudges him into bed, expression tender in a way that would make Lovett try to fight him if he had more energy. Lovett watches him change, movements quick and perfunctory, and then he turns out the light and slips in under the sheets, reaching out beneath the comforter to cup Lovett's neck.

"Hey," Jon says, voice low and rough, like tires crunching against gravel. "I'm glad we're here."

"Me too," Lovett says, quiet. It's the truth.

 

 

He wakes up far too early for a Monday off, because jet lag is a cruel mistress. It's barely five, according to the clock on the wall. He burrows beneath the covers and sends Tommy a picture of Jon's mouth hanging open as he snores, his skin filtered blue in the low light. _told you i could handle him_ , he puts in the caption.

His phone buzzes a couple minutes later. _As if there was ever any doubt_ , Tommy's sent back, and then: _Glad you kids kissed and made up._

Lovett's furiously typing out a five-part wall-of-text reply to _that_ particular message when Jon stirs, one eye cracking open. "Get off Twitter and come back to sleep," Jon croaks, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around Lovett's middle.

He opens his mouth, ready to explain, but the first word turns into a jaw-cracking yawn instead, the corners of his eyes prickling, and Lovett thinks: it's Monday morning. They don't have to be up for a while yet. He'll have time to browbeat Tommy for calling them kids, time to take the dogs out in the January sun, time to slide his hands in the pockets of Jon's jeans and pull him in for another kiss, and another, and another. There will be time for all of that later, all of that and more, the world made new with promise and potential. Now, here, he has the soft, unguarded hollow of Jon's throat, the warm circle of his arms. It feels good to be surrounded. Lovett puts his phone down, sticks his nose against Jon's collarbone, and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> some liner notes:
> 
> \- [here](https://i.imgur.com/1livO9w.png) is the missing baggage tweet that started it all.  
> \- [here](https://i.imgur.com/TPUKiSF.png) is a transcript of the stitchfix ad wherein lovett confesses to stealing a box of jon's clothing after they were delivered to the wrong house.  
> \- [here](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DUK1GuCWkAEUZeg.jpg:orig) is lovett, in oslo, wearing a shirt that is [ostensibly](https://i.imgur.com/z4hoBt6.jpg) [jon's](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DUK1GdsXcAAmdxp.jpg).  
> \- [here](https://twitter.com/trinesg/status/951166931758960641) is everyone dressed up nice and fancy for the dinner in oslo.  
> \- [here](http://lucy-vanpelt.tumblr.com/post/169656233423) is the nice outfit lovett was wearing in london, velvet shoes and all.  
> \- other things: lovett's [documented love for sudoku](https://twitter.com/jonlovett/status/925851361190739970), [40% maroon jeans](https://twitter.com/jonlovett/status/948975994966126592), [drumming with the ushanka](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdskcgUDHL3/).
> 
> as always, find me @neuer on twitter and @lucy-vanpelt on tumblr :*


End file.
